


and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates)

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, and that really bums me out, basically I cherry pick all my favorite bits of rwby canon and mash em together, freezerburn hours only y'all, not really an au but super not canon compliant, so here's me fixing that, they're just so soft and I never wrote wlw fic when I was into rwby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: Weiss can't pinpoint the exact moment everyone in her life started to make assumptions about her and Yang. She thinks it started—superficially anyway—at the Vytal Festival, when they'd been paired off in the doubles match. At that point it was a necessity though—they were fighting as a team, it made sense to refer to them as such. They'd still had their own partners, and their own larger loyalty to Team RWBY, and frankly they'd still hated each other's fucking guts, but she thinks that's the first time she can recall hearing the namesWeiss SchneeandYang Xiao Longtogether.And now, somehow, seven years later—it's all she seems to hear.
Relationships: Weiss Schnee/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 60
Kudos: 291





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weiss blows out a breath, sharp, summons her resolve, and says, all in a rush: "Ruby thinks we're dating."
> 
> There's a pause. It's noticeable.
> 
> Then Yang says, "Oh," with so much indifference Weiss would have half a mind to be insulted if she had the emotional capacity to spare, which she does not, presently.

"Is it raining?" asks Ruby. She's juggling her scroll while trying to disengage Crescent Rose and keep ahold of her satchel, which is slightly more bloodstained than usual and also contains something Weiss knows with certainty is meant only to be seen by Ruby and whoever hired her but that Ruby will doubtlessly end up showing Weiss later anyway. The result is a horrifying spiral of light-dark-light-dark-light-dark-light flashing on Weiss' screen as the scroll tumbles around, the lens periodically covered and uncovered as Ruby struggles to get everything under control. Gods Weiss hates video chatting. "It's _always_ raining there."

"It's the rainy season," Weiss says, reasonably. She watches Ruby's camera continue to flicker, idly wondering if the rhythmic pulsing of light and dark will hypnotize her if she stares at it long enough. It will probably definitely damage her eyesight. "You could have waited until you were done with the job to call me, Ruby."

Ruby hums noncommittally—there's a mumbled curse and Weiss' screen goes dark again as Ruby's scroll tumbles to the ground. Weiss props her cheek on her fist, staring at the grass and listening to Ruby try and get some semblance of control over her life.

Not that _Weiss_ is the expert on lives and/or having control over them, certainly.

"There!" Weiss blinks as light floods back into the frame, illuminating her screen as Ruby scoops up the scroll and positions it back on her. Crescent Rose is out of the shot, likely back resting along the base of her spine, and the bloody bag of dubious contents is out of sight. Ruby waves merrily, cheeks pinched in a grin. "Hi Weiss!"

Weiss softens. Says, "Hello, Ruby," with a small smile.

They chat idly—mostly Weiss listens to Ruby recount her latest job, ooo'ing and ahhh'ing in all the right places not because it's socially polite but because Ruby's just genuinely good at narrating her own exploits, and to be fair—bisecting a Manticore with one swing of her scythe is a story that deserves quite a bit of ooo'ing and ahhh'ing.

"How's the Council?" Ruby asks. Her scroll bounces as she walks—if Weiss gets motion sickness from this call Ruby is absolutely never going to hear the end of it.

"Indecisive. Greedy. Intransigent." Weiss waves a hand dismissively. "Mistral's wealthy profited _more_ from Grimm overpopulation—that way they didn't have to spend that money on infrastructure, or public transport."

Ruby frowns, says, "Yeah, it's like that in Vale too. I mean, I'm not sitting on any Councils or anything, but I hear stuff." She lifts one shoulder, a familiar cut of determination to her jaw. "Guess we just gotta keep working, huh?"

Weiss cracks a smile, endeared. And people are afraid of Maidens using their power to overthrow the powers-that-be of Remnant. _Please._

The conversation drifts—Sun is out her way in Mistral, visiting Neptune (Weiss promises to call Ruby first and not the police in the event there is a public disturbance originating from the Vasilias estate) and Blake is, predictably, off the grid again, but Ruby insists that she made Blake promise not to do anything _too_ dangerous (Weiss will admit a promise to Ruby Rose is a reasonably binding agreement, particularly those made with pinkies).

Ruby tries to pry into Weiss' personal life, all casual-like—or at least as causal as Ruby can get, which is about a subtle as a fucking floodlight. She pokes and prods and Weiss sidesteps her questions with the casual grace of someone who has spent their whole life learning to deflect in front of a camera— _no,_ she isn't seeing anyone, _no,_ she doesn't want to be seeing anyone, _no,_ that Councilor she was photographed with in the newspaper last week is _not_ her "secret lover" _gods_ Ruby you don't read the tabloids of people you _know._

Ruby doesn't mean anything by it, Weiss knows—she's just worried. Leader instincts do die so hard, and Ruby always took her role more seriously than the rest.

Weiss understands how her life looks from the outside—it doesn't exactly look stunning from where she's sitting either—but it's hers and she's...content.

"Is Yang there?" Ruby eventually chirps, finally deciding she isn't going to get a slip of gossip out of Weiss—no, not even if you show her what's in the satchel, Ruby. She moves closer to her scroll screen, inspecting the background in Weiss' shot and thereby giving Weiss a lovely view of her chin and cheek where it's squished up against the camera.

Yang is in the next room over and could be summoned easily—doubly so if she knew it was to coo over Ruby.

Weiss sets her jaw neutrally. "No," she says, "out shopping, sorry."

Ruby wrinkles her nose, pulling back. "Shopping?" she says, and Weiss frowns reflexively at the now-familiar _lilt_ to her voice. Ruby's _smart—_ whip fucking smart, no matter how rough-and-tumble her methods may be. This—as Weiss learned within thirty seconds of meeting her also those years ago at Beacon—can occasionally present itself as a problem, because Ruby is also physically incapable of letting anything go, especially when she's following a hunch. It's why she's such a stupid good Huntress. And also why she's literally the worst person in Weiss' life, presently. "For like, what?"

Weiss gives herself two ticks of the second hand on her watch before settling on, "Groceries," and immediately knows she's chosen incorrectly.

" _Groceries?"_

Weiss grinds her teeth so hard she wonders if they'll just snap off.

"We _do_ eat, Ruby," she sniffs. Her arch, imperious, _begone-from-me-peasant_ act had never really worked on Ruby, even when it wasn't an act and Weiss was just, like, actually legitimately that far up her own ass. "Actual food. From a store. Not whatever _berries_ we can forage in the wilds of—where are you now, anyway?"

"Emerald Forest," Ruby answers shortly, refusing to be distracted. "Weiss, Yang _hates_ grocery shopping."

She does. It's something Weiss is very well aware of and usually remedies by promising Yang can pick out any absurd recipe she wants once a month and Weiss will make it for her. It's always some kind of pie—Yang's got hot hands, literally. She couldn't make a dough to save her life, and that assumes she'd have the patience to try.

"I figured you guys would, I don't know," Ruby tilts her head, and Weiss wishes _desperately_ there was one single thought in Ruby's brain that would persuade her to _let it go_. But she's Ruby and she won't, or very possibly can't. Like, on a genetic level, just can't. "Shop together?"

Weiss shifts uneasily on the sofa. This conversation isn't going exactly how she'd like it to.

"Your _sister_ and I," says Weiss, arch, lifting an eyebrow and hoping to rebuff Ruby with the unmatched irritation of Schnee pride, "have slightly different culinary preferences."

Ruby just laughs, waving Weiss' comment away with a free hand. Weiss stews.

"Well _yeah,_ I mean—Sun's a vegetarian and I'm not," she shrugs, smiles—lopsided and warm. "We still go to the grocery store together. It really only makes sense when you live together, right?"

Weiss doesn't wipe all trace of human emotion from her face—that would be _dramatic._ She does, however, go very, very still. Her free hand—curled lazily around her knee—twitches towards her hip, but she doesn't exactly carry Myrtenaster around for casual afternoon chats in her own home.

"You and Sun are engaged, Ruby," she says, slow, like Ruby can't be trusted to recall who gave her the ring on her left hand. A ring Weiss had a rather large part in picking out, thank you kindly, though she maintains Sun could have proposed with a literal fucking tuna can and Ruby would have said yes exactly as enthusiastically.

Ruby huffs a sigh—she can get like this, when Weiss refuses to play along with her—and Weiss cuts her off before she can switch tactics to guilt tripping, which Weiss has significantly less resistance to, as do all living creatures Ruby uses it against.

"Ruby...Yang and I are roommates," says Weiss, as evenly as she can. It's absolute horseshit that the truth—the literal, actual truth—gets stuck in her throat, but she blames it on Ruby easily enough. "I just...that's it. We live together because it's easy, and it makes sense, and we both work in Mistral, and the kind of people who actually _want_ to live with a Maiden and a Maiden-to-be very rarely make good roommates." They usually turn out to be stalkers, actually, not that Ruby needs reminding of this. She's been a Maiden longer than any of them, excluding Raven, which Weiss does all the time anyway, _so._

Ruby actually colors a little, realizing her line of questioning as been soundly sussed out on account of the fact that Weiss isn't a complete _moron._ It's endearing enough to make Weiss go back on her earlier decision to dodge Ruby's calls for the next few days—she'd never have the heart to do it anyway, and that assumes Yang would let her get away with it in the first place.

"I worry about you," says Ruby, earnestly; small, pale features all knitted tight in concern. Weiss tries to smile, idly glad they aren't having this conversation in person so Ruby can't pull her into a bone-crushing hug.

Weiss says, "Nothing to worry about," like it's that easy, and Ruby nods, though she doesn't look convinced. Weiss doesn't blame her.

She's saved by an incoming call from Taiyang. Ruby makes a hasty goodbye and then the screen goes black—her Leader's smiling face and the unearthly green of the Emerald Forest all winking out in a blink—and Weiss stares back at her own reflection in the blank glass of her scroll.

Weiss can't pinpoint the exact moment everyone in her life started to make assumptions about her and Yang. She thinks it started—superficially anyway—at the Vytal Festival, when they'd been paired off in the doubles match. At that point it was a necessity, though—they were fighting as a team, it made sense to refer to them as such. They'd still had their own partners, and their own larger loyalty to Team RWBY, and frankly they'd still hated each other's fucking guts, but she thinks that's the first time she can recall hearing the names _Weiss Schnee_ and _Yang Xiao Long_ together.

And now, somehow, seven years later—it's all she seems to hear.

 _"So,"_ drawls Yang, long and slow and _fuck—_ Weiss jumps about a foot even though Yang getting the drop on her is so predictable at this point, she should just expect her to pop up at every turn. "I'm grocery shopping, huh?"

"I'm going to put a _bell_ on you," Weiss hisses, whipping around to glare. She throws a pillow just because it will buy her more time to get her expression under control. It sails overhead. Weiss' aim is shit without Myrtenaster.

Yang lifts an eyebrow, propping her elbows on the back of the sofa to lower her head next to Weiss, inserting herself so far into Weiss' personal space she almost has a _heart attack—_

"Yeah?" asks Yang, and Weiss _bristles_ at the suggestive drop to Yang's voice, snapping her head to the side to see Yang hanging off the back of the couch, waggling her eyebrows like an _idiot._ "And _then_ what?"

Weiss colors. Darkly.

"Get the fuck away from me," Weiss snarls, planting one pale hand on her cheek and _shoving._ Yang goes easily, laughing all the while, and Weiss burrows deeper into the corner of the couch, watching suspiciously as Yang traipses across the the living room to throw herself into the low, cozy, bowl-shaped chair Weiss always finds impossible to get up out of. She'd tried, once. Yang had laughed so hard she'd cried before she'd just leaned down and _bodily_ scooped Weiss up out of the cushions—

"I didn't want you to drain the battery on my scroll," says Weiss, dismissive, even as she quickly stows said scroll away so Yang can't see it's sitting at a pretty eight-six percent charge.

"Uh-huh," says Yang, making no effort to hide the fact that she knows Weiss is full of shit. She tilts her head, squinting at Weiss from across the room in that way she does when she's about to pull Weiss' exact fucking thought from her brain. Weiss has no idea how she does it—it's horrifying and invasive absolutely an unidentified part of her Semblance and definitely not because Yang's been able to read her page by page since they were seventeen.

"What'd Ruby say?" Yang asks, frowning. "You've got your sad pumpkin face on."

Weiss _sputters—_ a lifetime of etiquette lessons evaporating on the spot. "My _what?"_

"Y'know," Yang says, casual, "you get all like, introspective. Lost in your own head. Trying to solve all the world's problems. Taking on way too much responsibility. Blaming yourself for shit that's not your fault." She shrugs, like dissecting the private inner-workings of Weiss' mind is a perfectly normal thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. "All the usual stuff."

Weiss doesn't squirm. It's beneath her. She might, however, shift her weight in a particularly uneasy way. Continuously. In a manner that may, in fact, mimic squirming. If she were the kind of person who squirmed. Which she isn't.

Yang frowns, says, "Stop _squirming,_ Weiss. Honestly, are you two planning a fucking coup or what because every time you get off a call with her you're always..." Here Yang gestures vaguely and unhelpfully with her hand at Weiss' entire person. Weiss blinks.

"Always _what?"_

Yang gestures again, more violently this time. She doesn't wear Ember Celica around the apartment, but her prosthetic arm is plenty lethal on its own, and Weiss isn't thrilled about having it pointed at her face with intent, exactly.

"Always _weird,"_ says Yang, "and not like, Weiss weird. Like _weird_ weird."

Weiss is scandalized. "I'm not _weird,"_ she seethes.

" _Weiss,"_ says Yang, long-suffering and impatient, like she sometimes gets during lecture when her students are slow to pick up a new skill, "I've seen you eat hummus with a _pen cap."_

Weiss colors. Darkly. _Again._

"Once," she says, like that's any fucking defense.

Yang lifts an eyebrow. "Once that I _saw."_

To Weiss' credit, the incident in question had come on the heels of a fourteen hour day as she'd stayed on her feet in the Council to support Councilor Aiko's filibuster. So yes, she had eaten hummus with a pen cap, because she hadn't consumed _anything_ in going on eleven hours, and there wasn't anything to eat it with because she'd forgotten to pack carrot sticks, and _of course_ Yang had chosen that moment to drop by and _anyway—_

Yang's crashed Weiss' lunch hour nearly every day since then, like she's worried Weiss doesn't feed herself. Which she does—she definitely does—she just also, like, forgets to, sometimes.

"I think Ruby thinks that we're..." Weiss gestures between the two of them, exactly as uselessly as Yang had earlier, not even wanting to _think_ about how red her face is.

Yang lifts an eyebrow. "Ruby thinks we're what?"

Weiss blows out a breath, sharp, summons her resolve, and says, all in a rush: "Ruby thinks we're dating."

There's a pause. It's noticeable.

Then Yang says, "Oh," with so much indifference Weiss would have half a mind to be insulted if she had the emotional capacity to spare, which she does not, presently. Yang sinks deeper into the chair, propping her feet up on the coffee table. "Nah, can't be. You're dating that Councilor. They ran your picture in the _Post."_

Weiss _balks._

"Are you _serious?"_ Weiss doesn't shriek—it's undignified—but it's a near thing. "Ruby said the same thing—what _is_ it with you two— _why_ _do you read the_ _**tabloids?"**_

Yang shrugs, a small smirk curving the corner of her mouth. "Dunno," she answers, sunny and smug. "I think Qrow got us in the habit when we were younger."

Weiss would roll her eyes if every _atom_ of her being wasn't currently occupied with being as offended as possible. A Branwen with questionable taste. Color her fucking surprised. "Yang, you _live_ with me, you could just _ask—"_

"Blake is the one who showed me," says Yang, like that's any fucking better because Blake isn't even on this _continent_ and she's _still_ reading gossip rags. Yang grins—delighted, always, to annoy Weiss. "She sent me a screenshot of the article because she thought his hair was stupid."

Weiss grinds out, "His hair _is_ stupid." Yang just smiles wider.

"I thought it looked kinda like Jaune's," she says, still having entirely too much fun. She raises a hand, making ambiguous gestures at her own head of hair. "Y'know, back in like, what would have been Third Year, when he and Ruby were off raising hell." Weiss scoffs. Like Ruby and Jaune aren't _always_ off raising hell.

"Yeah," says Weiss, stiff with irritation, "like I said. _Stupid."_

Yang grins—all teeth. "I'm gonna tell him you said that."

"Good," Weiss returns, flippant, rising to her feet. "You should. He has the audacity to think he was _cool_ back then and that's not a crime that can go unpunished."

Her scroll chirps—Delphina Nikos, inviting her to a last-minute dinner at the upscale Vacuo-style restaurant downtown.

"Invite to a private dinner from Mrs. Nikos. Good mix of old and new Mistral money," says Weiss, when Yang looks up expectantly. "I need to go. _Ugh."_ She drops her head down, tapping her scroll to her forehead, briefly annoyed as she mentally shuffles through her wardrobe. "I should have had that black dress dry-cleaned last week, I didn't think I'd need it again so soon."

"Wear the blue one," says Yang, shrugging. "The one you got back in Atlas? You like it more anyway."

Weiss nods absently, thumbing through more details from Delphina. _Valet at the door—_ she's taking a cab, doesn't mater, _tell the hostesses you're with Councilor Violet—_ she's the fucking Maid of Winter and heiress apparent to the Schnee Dust Company, she'd like to see the hostess that would turn her away.

Another text pings through. Weiss glances at it and promptly freezes. Yang notices.

"Everything okay?" she asks, frowning. "Did Delphina shoot down the blue dress?"

"No," says Weiss, a beat too slowly. She rouses herself, stows her phone, forces her eyes to Yang's. "No, everything's fine. Just...last minute things make me anxious."

"Everything makes you anxious," says Yang, so gently Weiss can't actually take offense. "You good then? Gonna bring Myrtenaster?"

Weiss hums, considering it. "Probably," she admits. "I know it's bad taste, but—"

"Fuck 'em," says Yang, decisive, swinging up to her feet. "You're a Maiden, and a Huntress besides. Anyone who gives you shit for carrying a weapon can get their teeth kicked in." She makes to leave the room, lifting an eyebrow. "I'll grab it while you change? I can swap out the Dust cartridges, I know you were meaning to yesterday."

Weiss nods, touched. "Yes, please. Thank you."

Yang nods, tips her a wink, and heads to their apartment's makeshift armory. Yang's always tinkering with her prosthetic, and Myrtenaster has needed more than a few upgrades over the years to keep up with Weiss' increasing skill and demand. They're absolutely not getting the security deposit back after what Yang and her dad did to the room, but it was that or let Yang take full control of the garage and, well, Weiss needs _someplace_ to keep the car she never drives.

She thinks about reminding Yang about Myrtenaster's finicky latch on the fourth chamber, but decides she doesn't need to. Yang knows—she's the one who had pointed it out to Weiss in the first place.

Her scroll chimes again—she has it set to keep annoying her until she looks at a new message, which is necessary for her job but grating on her sanity—and forces herself to pull it out and properly open Delphina's message.

_Plus ones welcome, bring Yang if you'd like._

Weiss flicks the message away and goes off to collect her blue dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Beyoncé gif voice*_ RWBY???? **_RWBY??????_**
> 
> freezerburn is good and writing Weiss is good and sometimes RWBY itself is good but only fucking sometimes
> 
> hey hi if you've followed me for arguably too long you know RWBY used to be My Entire Shit but I fell off after volume three and never really checked back in (except when Raven was proven to be a Maiden bc I called that shit yes I know everyone else did too but _I called it)_
> 
> I hope you like it. not to get too like Personal On Main but I was a really different person four years ago, or however long it's been since the vol 3 finale, and one of my big regrets of the series is I had a loooooot of internalized homophobia which affected a lot of things, but also, made me not ship any of the RWBY girls. which isn't super important in the grand scheme of things, but looking back, is a bummer. I wish people still made RWBY merch like they used to bc I'd love to make a little freezerburn shrine, but alas.
> 
> you can @ me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/reduxwriter) if you want. I have old RWBY stuff but like read it at your peril it's Real Bad y'all.
> 
> have a good one <3 stay safe friends. I hope this little series can bring you some joy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Councilor Rhea thinks we’re dating,” Weiss blurts out, because she’s a fucking idiot, and also because she used up all her clever and delicate wordsmithing at work today. She watches Yang’s expression carefully, but she’s still lazily thumbing through her scroll. Weiss swallows. “Like. Like _dating,_ dating.”
> 
> Yang snorts, double-tapping on the screen. “I think all people who are dating are _dating_ dating, you nerd,” she answers. “Except for Nora and Ren, who were like, basically already married but still called it dating.” She glances up to smirk at Weiss, delighted by her own joke like she always is. “Married dating. _Mating.”_
> 
> “Shut _up,”_ Weiss snaps, embarrassment completely forgotten because— _gross._ “I never want to hear you say that again, _gods.”_

Yang says, “If you aren’t careful, they’re gonna like, make you their queen,” at seven in the fucking morning, and Weiss smiles blandly at the barista and doubles the size of her ordered coffee in response.

“I’m serious,” says Yang, settling just over Weiss’ shoulder the way she always seems to when they’re in public, following her to the pick-up table. Weiss hums to show she’s listening as she plucks out her assortment of cream and sugar, waiting for her drink. “They can't _function_ without you, Weiss. The Council’s a fucking joke.”

Yang, predictably, does not feel the need to lower her voice, and Weiss begins drafting an apology note in her head for Councilor Rhea’s wife, who is standing a scant three feet away and scowling at Yang like she’s a plague.

“Mistral is a democracy, Yang,” Weiss tells her. She’s run out of creamer cups to neatly line up and moves on to organizing the sugar packets so all their labels face outward uniformly. “Not a monarchy. So no queens.”

Yang grumbles something that sounds vaguely like **_dumb_** _ocracy_ and Weiss mentally adds on a flower bouquet to her impending apology gift basket because Councilor Rhea’s wife is of the generation that is easily won over by the symbolism of hydrangeas. Small mercies.

Her order comes up—thank gods—and Yang moves cleanly through the crowd milling in front of the counter to pluck her drink right out of the barista's hands and pass it over to Weiss, who accepts it without looking up from her small collection of coffee condiments. This is a practiced routine.

“There were queens before all this,” says Yang, like she’s looked at a history book once since graduation—or even before then. She was always copying Blake’s homework. She holds the door and Weiss steps neatly over the loose brick on the ledge of the coffee shop entrance. “Also you’re a Maiden so like—honestly if you asked I think they’d go for it.”

Weiss is scrolling through the news with one hand—hm, the Council rejected that new infrastructure bill, she’ll have to work harder to convince Councilor Lux—as Yang carts her around town with one warm hand on her elbow.

“They already tried to make Maidens queens,” Weiss murmurs, trying to both maintain the conversation and type out a message to Delphina—she’d offered to set up a meeting with Lux if he ended up flaking at the vote and Weiss fully intends to take her up on that. “Two hundred years ago, Atlas tried it. The Winter Maiden—Olwen Howl—was crowned and things fell apart immediately. She had no head for governing, and she was too powerful to be opposed.”

“No offense,” says Yang, and Weiss’ ears twitch with the knowledge that she’s about to be offended, “but that’s, like, seventeen year-old Weiss’ absolute wet dream.”

Weiss _squawks. **“What?”**_

“Easy!” Yang protests, trading her grip on Weiss’ elbow for hold on her wrist to keep her coffee steady as Weiss flails in objection. “Gods, Weiss, it was a _joke—”_

 _“First_ of all, seventeen-year-old me had _much more realistic_ ambitions—” Weiss begins shrilly.

“Oh my _gods,_ no she didn’t,” Yang argues, but she’s laughing as she takes Weiss’ coffee from her to keep it from spilling. “If you didn’t want to be a queen at seventeen it’s only because you already thought you _were_ one—”

“And _secondly,”_ Weiss thunders, though it’s mostly for show because Yang’s laughing her ass off at Weiss’ theatrics and the streets are still mostly empty at this hour, and if two of Remnant’s most famous Huntresses want to act like a couple of jackasses at the crack of dawn, that’s entirely their business. “Seventeen year-old me would have had a _perfect_ head for governing in a monarchy because monarchs are inherently _selfish_ and _self-obsessed.”_

Yang snorts, but shakes her head. “Nah, you weren’t that bad.” She flashes a grin—all teeth. “Not for long, anyway.”

Weiss rolls her eyes—big and exaggerated, just to make Yang snicker—and goes back to texting Delphina. She responds immediately—gods, it’s like, seven in the morning, doesn’t this woman fucking _sleep?—_ and offers a few dates for the meeting with Lux, which Weiss checks against her own calendar and, oh—

“You have conferences starting tomorrow,” Weiss realizes, pulling up the reminder she’d scribbled in months ago. She tosses Yang a sideways glance. “Did you ever clear things up with that Atalar girl?”

“Elmas,” Yang supplies. “Elmas Atalar. Yeah, she’s got an attitude, but I get it.” Weiss glances at where Yang still holds her coffee cup and declines to ask for it back—at least this way it’ll stay warm on the way to work.

Weiss says, “Has her father—?” but Yang cuts her off.

“I don’t really see Admiral _fuckin’_ Atalar hauling his ass down from his fancy mansion to sit across from me at a school desk in Haven, Weiss,” Yang bites out. She pauses—eyes flickering dangerously—before settling back on violet. “Sorry. I just— _ugh._ He’s such a piece of shit, y’know?”

Weiss _does_ know. Intimately, in fact, given Yang has taken to complaining—loudly, and at length—about one Admiral Adrian Atalar and his treatment of his illegitimate daughter just about every other day for the past five weeks.

“The Atalars are one of Remnant’s Great Families,” says Weiss, reasonably, measuring her tone carefully so Yang doesn’t think she’s being patronized—she _isn’t,_ Weiss would never—but she takes on the struggles of her students so personally sometimes, it makes her uncharacteristically sensitive. Particularly those with strained parental relationships, not that Weiss is, like, keeping tabs or anything—just an idle observation. “Elmas has the name, like it or not.” She shrugs one shoulder, mouth pulled down in an apologetic grimace. “She’ll have to learn how to weather it somehow. It’s never going to go away.”

Yang hums, still bothered, but allows herself to be appeased as she takes Weiss’ elbow again, maneuvering her around a pair of boys in Sanctum uniforms who go stock still on the sidewalk to gawk at Yang.

“Morning,” she greets them, casual, when they decline to do anything but stare.

“Yang Xiao Long?” one blurts, eyes wide.

His friend elbows him sharply. “Dude, that’s _Professor Xiao Long,_ you can’t just call her _Yang.”_

Yang quirks an eyebrow. “You can call me Yang,” she says, easy as anything. “It’s my name, ‘less something changed without me knowing.” She tips her head to the side, peering nearly straight down at them—gods, Weiss forgets how _small_ thirteen year-olds are, surely she’d never been that short. “What’s yours?”

Both boys straighten up at this, eyes somehow growing wider. Weiss supposes she might see actual stars in them if she looks hard enough, and wishes she still had her coffee so she could sip noisily from it.

“Ciro,” one blurts out, nearly speaking across his friend as he answers, “Archer,” just as quickly.

Yang bobs her head in understanding as Weiss mentally files the names away, knowing Yang will absolutely not retain that information, presuming she hasn’t already instantaneously forgotten. She’s awful with names—Weiss made her flashcards with her students’ faces at one point and it only marginally helped.

“Little early for class, don’tcha think?” Yang asks, resting a hand on her hip. “First bell doesn’t ring for, what, two more hours?”

Ciro is bouncing on the tips of his toes, hands balled into fists.

“Today’s the first day of the weapon workshop!” he explains, loudly— _so_ very loudly, it is _seven_ in the morning, thank you. “We’re gonna be crafting our own weapons soon!”

Yang says, "Hey, that's right, it is getting to be that time, isn't it?" while Weiss makes a mental note to lean on Headmaster Ayana—that is, Sage, as he’s always insisting she call him—to revisit her proposal on raising the age of entry for Primary Combat Schools and Hunting Academies. Thirteen is _young—_ horrifically so—especially in times of peace.

“I wanna make a weapon like Ember Celica!” Ciro says, punching the air for demonstration and narrowly avoiding clocking Archer straight in the face. “I _love_ close combat!”

Yang nods once, solemn, and Weiss resists the urge to roll her eyes if only for the sake of the very impressionable children in front of her.

 _“Awesome,_ dude. Seriously.” Yang cracks a grin. “Hey—have your teacher give me a call if you need help sometime, eh? World always needs more brawlers.”

Ciro looks to be on the verge of tears. Extremely happy, delighted, passionate tears.

“And you?” Weiss asks, taking a particularly risky gamble and engaging in dialogue with a child—something she is not, historically speaking, very gifted at. But Archer hasn’t been able to get a word in edgewise. “What kind of weapon are you thinking of crafting?”

Archer and Ciro both snap their gazes to her—she realizes now that this is literally the first moment they’ve even registered her presence—and Archer actually _gasps._

“Oh my gods,” Ciro wheezes, “Weiss—I mean! Miss—Misses— _Maid—”_

Weiss quickly says, “Just Weiss, please,” if only to save him from juvenile heart failure. “Nobody actually _calls_ me the Maid of Winter, you know.” That’s not true—plenty of people call her the Maid of Winter, up to an including the barista at a coffee shop she no longer frequents who had literally written _Maid of Winter_ on her damn fucking iced chai—but Weiss is holding on to the vain hope that if she keeps insisting nobody calls her that, everyone will _stop doing it._

Ciro audibly gulps. Archer looks like he’s been turned to absolute stone. So, all told, not, like, her greatest social interaction, but ranking rather high among her conversations with children.

“Aw, Weiss isn’t scary,” Yang drawls, draping an arm around her shoulders and _—oh gods Yang no stop—_ dropping most of her weight, leaving Weiss to support both of them on the sidewalk. She feels her knees tremble a bit but soundly _refuses_ to call upon her Maiden powers for something so relentlessly stupid.

Weiss tries for a smile. Archer offers one back, tentative, but Ciro is tugging on his arm, several shades paler than he’d been before. Yang decides to cut them loose.

“Go on then,” she gestures in the direction of Sanctum, “hurry up if you wanna be early.”

They dart off, backpacks swinging wildly and threatening to throw them completely off-balance.

“What are they teaching kids at Sanctum?” Yang grumbles. “Why aren’t they falling over themselves to talk to you? You’re a damn Maiden.”

“Because I stand in Council hearings all day negotiating for money to fix poorly maintained bridges whereas you punched a _train_ that had come off-track to a stop just under a week ago,” Weiss reminds her, looking back at her scroll. And she'd given Weiss a fucking _heart attack_ by leaping in _front_ of said train, but that’s beside the point, clearly. “One of those is very obviously more heroic and exciting than the other. And is also why, by the way, we need money for infrastructure.”

She declines to add that a strong seventy-five percent of the suspicion and fear surrounding Maidens comes from none other than Raven Branwen doing morally dubious things with little to no supervision while she’s off in the wilds of Vacuo or wherever the hell she spends her time. Yang already knows this, for one thing, and it is—as stated—seven in the godsdamned morning and Weiss doesn’t have a half hour to spare listening to the resulting rant that mentioning Raven will draw from Yang. Weiss claims fifteen percent of the suspicion and fear for no reason other than she’s a Schnee in a position of power and that will always, _always_ make people nervous.

The remaining ten percent is split between that time Ruby accidentally decapitated the Hunstman statue on Beacon’s campus in a fight with a Beringel and the fact that Blake has, to Weiss’ knowledge, literally _never_ been photographed since receiving the powers of the Fall Maiden, or maybe even before, barring a few choice selfies on Yang’s scroll.

“Huh,” says Yang, turning to look over her shoulder as the boys go scampering away. “I guess. Aison is still the Master-at-Arms at Sanctum, yeah?”

Weiss nods, primly reclaiming her coffee cup from Yang.

“He is, and you are _completely_ forbidden from bothering him about those two because I need him and his wife to keep inviting me to swanky parties so I can eavesdrop on Councilors.” She takes a sip, ensuring to stick her pinky out just to be a shit. Yang snorts.

“Aison loves me,” she brags, which is true, but only because Aison Nikos loves literally _everyone,_ indiscriminately. He’d probably be delighted to put Yang in touch with Ciro. Weiss adds a note on her scroll to remind herself to ask him about it later. Yang will appreciate it.

“Of course he does,” Weiss ends up saying, mouth mostly on autopilot, which is never a good idea. “Everyone loves you.” She looks up to say goodbye before they split ways—Yang to Haven Academy, Weiss to the Silver Court where the Mistral Council offices are—and finds Yang fixing her with an unreadable look before she offers her usual jaunty smile.

“’Course. Have fun shaking down Councilors,” says Yang, lifting her hand in farewell.

Weiss forces a smile. “If they don’t shake me down first,” she answers, only half-joking.

The Court’s lobby is relatively empty by the time Weiss steps in, which is by design. She doesn’t like being cornered by Councilors on a good day, let alone the day a bill she’d spent months lobbying for fell through. She climbs the stairs up to her office—the fight with Cinder Fall in Atlas’ Vault all those years ago left her with a lingering fear of elevators, though she’ll swallow Myrtenaster before she admits it to anyone—content to spend the morning alone, drawing up new plans, tapping old allies, calling in favors, starting the process all over again.

The quiet only lasts about twenty minutes, as Councilor Rhea inevitably finds Weiss, because Councilor Rhea’s ability to find Weiss always seems to run perpendicularly to how little Weiss wants to be found.

“The bill didn’t pass,” she announces, sailing into Weiss’ office like a swan, all flowing white robes and glimmering golden jewelry. Weiss is privately convinced she enters every room expecting a spotlight to flood her figure, and is mildly disappointed each time it doesn’t happen.

Weiss says, “Good morning,” because she _was_ raised by wolves, but they still taught her manners. She gestures to a spare chair, but Rhea bypasses it entirely, instead drifting over to the large window of her office to post herself dramatically against the glass.

“It was always somewhat fanciful, I suppose,” she sighs, and Weiss sips her coffee and checks her emails, content to let Rhea monologue in peace. “Mistral is still stuck in the past, it really is terribly sad.”

“Terribly,” Weiss agrees vaguely. She deletes a string of emails from Winter without looking—if her sister wants to talk she has her damn scroll number—and bookmarks one from Coco Adel to read later. At a glance Weiss can’t tell if it’s a restaurant recommendation or an invitation to take part in a sting operation; it always is a toss-up with her.

Rhea sighs again—a heavy, hard thing, and Weiss glances over sympathetically. She knows Rhea can be theatrical and affected and _will_ drape herself over any available surface as dramatically as possible should the need arise; but she’s also the oldest, longest-serving Councilor on Mistral’s Council and has been fighting this fight for longer than Weiss has been alive, let alone the scant year and a half she’s actually been in Mistral.

“I’m sorry,” says Weiss, because she is—deeply so. “I’m already working with Delphina Nikos—I had dinner with her and her husband and some other Mistral elites the other day, and she offered to put pressure on Lux if he broke rank.”

“Oh, I’m well aware, child,” says Rhea, and just like that collects herself back into the tack sharp, ruthlessly competent Councilor who saw her Kingdom through the near-downfall of Remnant and the rise of Cinder Fall. “I’m kept very informed on your involvement with the Nikos family—quite wise; they’ve always been a famous name, but after Pyrrha, they’re almost _mythic_ in these circles.”

Weiss doesn’t choke—not anymore, not like she used to—when she hears Pyrrha’s name. It was harder in the beginning—when she’d first arrived in Mistral, and Yang had showed her around the entire Kingdom, neatly excluding one particular section of Argus’ Memorial Park. It took weeks for Weiss to finally ask her to take them there, and weeks more before she stopped seeing the golden visage of her classmate in her dreams.

 _“Does it bother you?”_ Weiss had asked, once, when she was feeling uncharacteristically bold. _“To work with me? I don’t want to force myself on you, Mrs. Nikos, and I appreciate you reaching out, but—”_

 _“When we let Pyrrha go to Vale, she had no friends, no allies, no one to look out for her,”_ Delphina had murmured back. She’d turned then—Weiss’ heart had lodged in her throat at the phantom sight of Pyrrha Nikos’ arresting green eyes looking back at her. _“I won’t make that mistake again. You have us, Weiss, for as long as you need us, in any capacity that you needs us.”_ She’d reached out, taking hold of Weiss’ hand— _gods_ how Weiss had missed her own mother in that moment. _“Pyrrha only ever wanted to help others—that’s all. I think it would make her happy, to see us working together.”_

“…apologies, child,” Rhea is saying, and Weiss blinks—oh, gods, she’d completely drifted out of the conversation. How very clumsy of her.

“It’s nothing,” says Weiss, dismissively, speaking ruthlessly over the lump in her throat. She returns to her email inbox, finding it only mildly more bearable than the discussion the Nikos’ family tragedy. “You were saying?”

Rhea surveys her closely, but Weiss has been studied by much, much colder eyes—has been held to standards so high it would make even the most clever, capable Councilor dizzy just to think about. Eventually, she says, “You need to stop going to those events by yourself, you know.”

Weiss pauses in the act of deleting another swath of emails from Winter—technically from Whitley, but Weiss has been recognizing her sister’s hand in things for _decades_ and fires off a quick reply for him to _stay **out** of this, Whitley_. “Rhea, with respect, I am a perfectly competent Huntr—”

Rhea forcefully waves Weiss’ comment away with the elaborately patterned fan she’s produced from the sleeve of her robe; says, with exaggerated sincerity, “I’m not worried about your _safety,_ child—you’re the damned Winter Maiden. I’m worried about your _social standing.”_

It takes every _ounce_ of Weiss’ decorum not to make a face _._

“I don’t think,” Weiss begins, delicately, because Rhea really does mean well, and she knows the game better than anyone, “that’s at risk? Necessarily? The Schnee name still carries tremendous authority even outside of Atlas, and—not to be immodest—but now that it’s also tied to a _Maiden,_ it’s really only—”

Rhea heaves a sigh and Weiss swallows the rest of her sentence.

“You can’t always be _alone,_ child,” says Rhea, like this is so painfully obvious it’s actually physically hurting her. She grips the back of a chair for support—the drama of it all, truly. “The tabloids are always watching, and your family name can only protect you in so many ways. You really need to be seen with your girlfriend more often.”

Weiss goes very, very still. Says, “My _what?”_ very, very carefully.

Rhea blinks. “Your _girlfriend,_ dear. Forgive me, I don’t know what the young people call it these days.” She waves a bony hand dismissively as if to banish any piece of language less than a century old. “You know, your _partner._ That tall girl, with blonde hair? Gracious, dear, you two are always attached at the hip, I don’t exactly know what you want me to call it.”

Weiss’ throat clicks as she swallows; says, “Do you mean _Yang?”_ like there are any other _tall girls with blonde hair_ Weiss is ever seen with, or even _knows_.

Rhea nods absently. “The Professor from Haven, yes. Jinni doesn’t like making public appearances very often herself—perhaps Yang could ask for some tips, if she always finds herself feeling shy in public.”

Weiss pauses, briefly, as her mind cycles through a) the absurdity of Yang Xiao Long ever feeling shy for literally any reason b) the fact that Jinni is none other than the woman Weiss has been planning an apology gift basket for all morning on account of the fact that she absolutely _hates Yang_ and c) Yang being mistaken for her fucking _girlfriend._

“Yang and I,” says Weiss, woodenly, “aren’t dating. We’re roommates.”

Rhea just nods again. “Of course, of course,” she agrees. She tips Weiss a wink. “That’s what Jinni and I called it too, you know.”

They chat briefly after that—Rhea gives her some pointers on which Councilors to target for the next go-around, advises her as to what circles her name will get her farthest in, reminds her of a few members of the Council who owe her favors—before finally seeing herself out with another swish of her robe.

Weiss struggles to accomplish anything the rest of the day, too caught up on Rhea’s assumption and the implications of the fact that the two individuals she spends the most time talking to who _aren’t_ Yang think that she’s _dating_ Yang.

 _“Oh,”_ Yang had said last time, when Weiss had brought it up. It had seemed so… _anticlimactic,_ in a way, but what would Weiss have _wanted_ her to say?

It’s a question she’s still turning over hours later, back at the apartment with Yang, watching her perhaps a bit too closely as she peruses her scroll for a certain recipe. It's a pie. It's always a pie.

“Councilor Rhea thinks we’re dating,” Weiss blurts out, because she’s a fucking idiot, and also because she used up all her clever and delicate wordsmithing at work today. She watches Yang’s expression carefully, but she’s still lazily thumbing through her scroll. Weiss swallows. “Like. Like _dating,_ dating.”

Yang snorts, double-tapping on the screen. “I think all people who are dating are _dating_ dating, you nerd,” she answers. “Except for Nora and Ren, who were like, basically already married but still called it dating.” She glances up to smirk at Weiss, delighted by her own joke like she always is. “Married dating. _Mating.”_

“Shut _up,”_ Weiss snaps, embarrassment completely forgotten because— _gross._ “I never want to hear you say that again, _gods.”_

Yang grins wider, reaching up to tap her scroll against the digital screen of their microwave so the recipe transfers, displayed big and bright and easy to read. “Mating,” she repeats, just to be a shit. “Maybe that’s what we'll put on their next anniversary card, eh? _Happy Third Mating—”_

“It will be their _fourth_ anniversary,” says Weiss, loudly, because if she hears Yang say _mating_ one more time Myrtenaster is going to make an appearance and that would break her own no-weapons-in-places-we-also-eat rule. She elbows Yang out of the way, standing on tiptoe to read the recipe. “And we are _not_ doing that.”

Yang just hums, entirely too fucking pleased with herself. She reaches up to the top cabinets to pull out a mixing bowl while Weiss bends down to collect the pie pan.

The evening settles down from there—Yang pulls up a chair and scrolls through her various social media accounts, occasionally reading out things she thinks Weiss will find funny or interesting and showing her photos their friends have posted as Weiss works on the pie dough.

“Is that Ciel?” she asks, frowning and taking another glance at Yang’s scroll screen. Their one-time opponent in the Vytal Festival and current Director of Atlas Academy’s sprawling library is posing regally beside a new shipment of textbooks, hair fixed impeccably and watch synchronized to the nanosecond. “Gods, she looks so different.”

“Yeah, Penny was really good for her, I think,” Yang remarks, looking back at the image. “And Ciel’s really helped Penny settle down some.” She scoffs then, brows slanting down in annoyance.

Weiss frowns. “What is it?”

“The _illustrious_ Admiral Atalar finally decided to let me know he isn’t coming to Elmas’ conference,” she grumbles, tapping somewhat aggressively on her scroll as she doubtlessly deletes the message as violently as the interface will allow her. “Or at least his secretary did. Gods, I hate his fucking guts. Can’t you make Winter fire him?”

Weiss pours some of her power into her hands, chilling her fingers as she works the dough to keep it cool. “That would require a conversation _with_ Winter,” she answers, light as she can, “and the equally illustrious General Schnee doesn’t seem terribly interested in calling me.” Yang scoffs, still grimacing at her scroll.

“I can pull his records though,” Weiss offers, “make a formal complaint if we find something.” She folds the dough into a uniform square, thinking it over. It would be tricky business, asking for something in Atlas without actually _asking,_ but if she rattles the right cages, in the right order…

She opens her mouth, hesitates, and promptly snaps it shut. Yang glances at her out of the corner of her eye.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Yang groans. _“Weiss,_ would you just—”

“I could talk to her,” Weiss says, quickly, and with a tremendous lack of tact. She feels herself color slightly, and fiddles mindlessly with the cellophane wrapping so she won’t have to actually look at Yang’s face. “Elmas, I mean. I just—I get it, and not a lot of people do, and I don’t want to overstep and I know you’re a great teacher on your own but I—if you think it would help—”

Yang says, _“Weiss,”_ with such an odd strain to her tone that Weiss looks up _immediately,_ only to see Yang staring back down at her, expression set. “Would you do that? Really? Just like…sit down and talk with her?”

Weiss shrugs, trying for casual as she reaches blindly for the refrigerator door to store the dough. It’s overwhelming, being the sole bearer of Yang’s intense focus like that—it makes her feel exposed in a way she’s never felt under anyone else’s gaze.

“If you think she’d be receptive, I’d be happy to,” says Weiss, cool as you please. It really _isn’t_ a big deal—not even in the way Weiss tries to make simple favors look like grand sweeping gestures so she’ll have IOUs from various Council members in her back pocket. It’s just—it bothers Yang, _clearly,_ and Weiss knows a thing or two about being the disgraced daughter of a famous family, so. Everyone wins. It’s really only practical.

“She’s prickly,” warns Yang, “like, I think she’s worse than _you_ when you were her age.”

“Seventeen year-old Weiss is getting an awful lot of shit today,” Weiss remarks, blandly, flicking Yang a peeved look. “Maybe we should revisit some of seventeen year-old _Yang’s_ exploits, hm?”

Yang smirks, folding her arms across the back of the chair and resting her chin on top. Weiss is seized with the most singularly irrational desire to snap a picture that she immediately looks away.

“Revisit away,” she suggests, smug. “I think we should start with the time I punched the leg off a _mech.”_

Weiss smiles to herself as she closes the refrigerator door. She could, technically, use her powers to just chill the dough in her bare hands, but that's objectively a relatively stupid use of the abilities granted to her for the purpose of protecting Remnant.

And also: the sooner the pie is done, the sooner Yang ambles off to the workshop, and if Weiss wants an extra half hour of normal bickering with her roommate after a shitty day, fucking sue her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the kind words on this <3 it really makes me happy to write RWBY again. I do love these characters.
> 
> please take care of yourselves, friends. my life's been nothing but bad news lately, and it's made writing really hard, but nice comments and kudos and even just the knowledge that someone read what I wrote and liked it really does help.
> 
> unsentimental but: I really, really want to write about Weiss' fight with Cinder Fall in the Atlas Vault now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yang laughs, once—a sharp bark of amusement that sends a bolt of, well, _something,_ ricocheting down Weiss’ spine.
> 
> "You think I’m only saying this because, what, we’re _dating?"_ she drawls, lazy and tart. Weiss chokes on her next swallow. "Is that the only reason I can have to hate the people who make her feel shitty, Winter? I have to be _fucking_ her in order to want her to be happy? _That’s_ what you’re telling me right now?"
> 
> Weiss is— _factually_ —not getting enough oxygen.

"I am _not,"_ Weiss' voice cracks through several octaves, _"playing_ at anything! I have a _job—"_

"Oh, _spare_ me," Winter drawls, infuriatingly calm on the other line and _gods_ what Weiss wouldn't give to have her fucking sister at sword point this _second,_ just to see her _sweat,_ for _once—_ "You were offered half a dozen jobs on Atlas' Council, Weiss. There was no need to run away to godsdamned _Mistral."_

Weiss briefly considers muting her line for a moment so she can actually literally just _scream,_ but even that would require more presence of thought than she is capable of, presently.

"Run _away?"_ She's being loud. Far too loud. Gods, the neighbors are going to hear. "I _live here_ now, Winter! If you wanted me to stay in Atlas so _desperately,_ you might have said something before I was already fucking _gone—"_

Winter scoffs. "Please, like you've _ever_ listened to me about anything," she answers, cold, and Weiss will acknowledge a fair point when she hears one, but still. It's not like Winter's ever said anything worth listening _to._

There's a pause. Weiss rather thinks of her conversations with Winter like the fencing duels they used to have as children. Nonlethal, yes, but still, they still are, effectively, trying to stab each other just to score a point.

"How's Whitley?" Weiss finally asks, tense, when it becomes clear Winter is perfectly content to sit and rot in silence until her scroll just fucking runs out of battery. "He sent me an email the other day like he was concerned." She doesn't add that she knows damn well Winter is the one who orchestrated that email, because she's trying to be _nice,_ for all the good that's going to do her.

Winter sighs, heavy and hard. If she weren't so determined to judge every aspect of Weiss' existence down to the _atom,_ Weiss might even feel a little sorry for her. Might. Likely not, though. It's probably considered a character flaw to be so tightfisted with forgiveness, but what is a Schnee but a whole host of character flaws stitched together with vaguely malicious intent. She wonders if asking about Mother would have been a better choice, but promptly chokes the thought down.

"Whitley is…troubled," says Winter, like they aren't all fucking _troubled,_ "he wants to be more involved in the company."

Weiss says, "That isn't unusual, Winter. Whitley has always been interested in—"

"There's too much Father in him," Winter interrupts, chilly, like she didn't spend every waking moment of her youth at the knee of Jacques Schnee. Weiss lifts an eyebrow her sister can't see.

"There's too much Father in all of us, Winter," Weiss responds dully. She freezes the tips of her fingers and rubs at her temple, feeling a migraine taking shape. "That's why we're so singularly fucking unlikeable, in case you hadn't realized."

Winter doesn't laugh. It occurs to Weiss that her humor has been shaped very noticeably by what Yang does and does not find funny, because Yang would have absolutely fucking _lost it_ at that joke.

As though Winter can read her thoughts—an idea Weiss has ruled out if only because Winter lived under the same roof as Weiss during her most uncharitable years and didn't have her _incarcerated_ for every terrible, jealous, mildly homicidal thought Weiss ever held for her sister—she says, "Well, it seems the Xiao Long girl likes you well enough," tone couched with enough intent to make Weiss' hackles rise.

"What," says Weiss, tone tightrope taut, "does that _mean,_ Winter?"

Winter answers, "Does it have to mean anything?" because despite the slim sword strapped to her side, Winter's talent has always been her ability to draw blood with her words.

Weiss works her jaw, willing herself to curb her temper. "I don't know what you _think_ you know," she hisses out, words so cold she's idly surprised her breath doesn't cloud as she speaks, "but you are—as usual—quite extraordinarily _wrong."_

"It doesn't matter what the truth is," Winter says, just this side of sub-zero, "half of Atlas' elite think you're in _bed_ with her—"

Weiss' world _tilts._ Dangerously so.

 _"_ _Enough."_ There's a harsh strain to Weiss' voice—unpleasant and cruel; the scrape of a blade across frozen water. "I will not suffer _gossip_ from my own _sister—"_

"Your life begins and ends with _gossip,"_ Winter replies, and Weiss can _feel_ the conversation turn—can _see_ Winter's fencing saber in her mind's eye—"Despite what you seem to have convinced yourself of, Weiss, you cannot simply turn your back on your _birthright."_

 _"_ _Oh,"_ says Weiss, temper spiking because _here_ it is, _here's_ the real crux of the issue. "So it's perfectly acceptable for _you_ to renounce your place in the Schnee Dynasty, but when _I_ do the _same—"_

Winter snarls, "I gave up my position in our family in order to _protect_ our family," and Weiss swears she can hear the ice _splintering_ in her sister's voice—like some great glacier just _giving_. "You threw _everything_ away—"

 _"_ _Everything?"_ Weiss fires back, slamming her hand down on the counter. The granite freezes over, leaving a perfect icy imprint behind. Weiss hardly notices. "Winter, the SDC is a _fraction_ of what it once was!"

"All the more reason for you to be in _Atlas,_ using whatever talents you might think you have to work towards _restoring—"_

"Well when you put it like _that,"_ Weiss seethes, "how could I _possibly_ refuse?"

 _"_ _Weiss!"_ Winter's voice cracks like a whip, but Weiss sets her teeth, refusing to flinch. "You have a _duty!"_

"I _don't!"_ Weiss yells back, terribly, horrifically loud, the way she only gets in fights with her sister, "we're more than our last fucking _name,_ Winter, why can't you _understand—"_

Winter shouts, "That _last name_ you hate so much is the _only_ reason you have amounted to _anything_ in this world—" and the last threads of Weiss' composure _snap—_

The kitchen window blows open, suddenly—shutters slamming against the walls as a frigid gust of wind rips through, leaving a swath of snow its wake, and Weiss can _feel_ her powers clawing up her throat when she screams, _"Stop repeating Father!"_

 _"_ _I'm not—!"_ Winter's voice is suddenly very, very far—swallowed up by the howling wind as Weiss curls in on herself, tears quick-freezing against her cheeks and it's all too much, suddenly, overwhelming, excruciating—

Everywhere is a whiteout—Weiss feels her senses leave her, one by one, until she is—inevitably, inexplicably—faced with the visage of Cinder Fall—perfectly preserved in Weiss' darkest memories—striding across Atlas' Vault to meet her, dragging her twin blades across the floor, throwing sparks and dredging up a horrific _screech—_

 _"_ _Oh, you sweet little snowbird,"_ she'd murmured, all warm and low and velvet, lone eye alight—not a metaphor, not a turn of phrase, her eye was _burning;_ flames licking across her iris, flickering bright against the dark, sunken socket. _"Life really is terribly unfair, isn't it? Here you are, so brave and loyal, doing the right thing, standing up for what you believe in, and yet, at the end…"_ she'd waved one curved blade at the empty excess of the Vault. _"You're still standing alone."_

 _"_ _Shut up,"_ Weiss had hissed, hand throbbing from her bruising grip on Myrtenaster's hilt. _"I don't care—"_

Cinder had _cooed_ at her, and Weiss had flinched away from the sound so violently she'd nearly broken her fucking _neck—_

 _"_ _But you_ _ **do**_ _care,"_ Cinder had said, earnest, eager, eye widening as she drew closer, _"and that's why it hurts so badly, right? Because you've done all the right things, made all the right choices, proven everyone wrong…"_ she'd trailed off, lips curling in a smile fit to cut steel. _"And no one—not your family, not your friends, not a single classmate—came with you."_

 _"_ _Did you prepare this monologue beforehand?"_ Weiss had snarled. She'd flipped Myrtenaster to a reverse grip, planting her feet, stance set. She wasn't moving any closer. If Cinder wanted a fight, she could very well come and get one.

 _"_ _You're going to die alone in this Vault, Weiss Schnee,"_ Cinder had said, the same line that had haunted Weiss for days, weeks, months, _years_ —even after she'd climbed out of the Vault, very much alive—the phantom feel of Cinder's hands around her neck, dragging her back down, down, down—

"Hey," Yang's voice is soft—warm and real and _there_ —lips at Weiss' ear. "Hey, it's okay, you're good, Weiss—I've got you, okay?" Her hand is hot to the touch at the small of Weiss' back—her real one, flesh and blood and bone, fingertips dragging lazy circles over Weiss' shirt. "You can let go, Weiss—it's okay, just let it go."

Sense comes back in fragments. She hears Yang, feels Yang, tries to drag her eyes open so she can _see—_

 _"_ _Cinder,"_ Weiss hears herself say—the name spat from gritted teeth, angry and scared and still bleeding out from old wounds.

Yang's hand goes tense at the dip of Weiss' waist—fingers curling protectively, grip hot enough to _burn—_

"Cinder's gone, Weiss," Yang murmurs, tone darker by shades. She swallows with difficulty—Weiss can imagine her eyes flickering as she works to marshal her temper. "Hey, come on—it's just us. You're safe, Weiss, okay? Just me, just you. No one else."

It takes a moment—several moments, actually. Weiss just stays curled on her knees, face hidden in Yang's shoulder as Yang strokes absently at Weiss' hip. Time passes, Weiss assumes, but she's hardly aware of it.

Eventually, the awkward angle of Weiss' leg becomes too uncomfortable to ignore, and she sits back to stretch it out with a wince. Yang leans away, silently watching her, eyes running across the whole length of Weiss leg—bare in a pair of Signal Academy athletic shorts she'd stolen from Ruby years ago in the dorms—and Weiss resists the urge to shiver surrounded by snow.

Speaking of—snow. A lot of it, actually.

"Oh," says Weiss, distracted. She glances around at the layer of fresh snow dusting their kitchen. "Sorry."

"Don't worry," Yang says, all casual. She stands up, offers Weiss a hand, pulls her to her feet. "You feeling okay?"

Weiss shrugs one shoulder, ducking Yang's gaze. Yang hasn't let go of her hand. "I feel like I just used my gods-granted powers intended to protect the continent to summon a blizzard in our apartment," she says, stiff.

"Eh," Yang doesn't seem worried. Weiss guesses it isn't, all told, _that_ much snow. She once took out an Ursa by summoning enough ice and snow and sleet to just absolutely _bury it,_ so like, as usual: things could be worse. "We can clean it up. What's Winter up your ass about?"

Weiss grimaces as Yang finally turns away—she drops Weiss' hand as she goes and Weiss feels her fingers flex in response—to stoop down and just grab a barehanded fistful of snow to throw in the sink. It hits the basin with a wet splatter, and Weiss lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed with her methodology.

"Oh, nothing particularly interesting," Weiss says, rolling her shoulder before sweeping out her hand. It's always bizarre using her powers without Myrtenaster in hand, and she finds herself pointlessly mirroring her fencing footwork as she pulls the sheet of snow covering the island up into the air, circling a finger as it swirls lazily around the room before dropping into the sink beside Yang's snowball with an equally uninspiring _smack._ "I'm a disgrace, I've turned my back on my family, I'm not worth anything, et cetera ad infinitum."

Yang says, "Gross," as she scoops up more snow. She mimes throwing one handful at Weiss, who pins her with a look that dares her to fucking _try._ Yang grins back toothily and dutifully chucks them in the sink. "Why'd you take her call? You know she's never gonna say anything worth a damn."

Weiss pauses, because—well, why _did_ she? Habit, possibly. A baseless and outdated sense of duty. Guilt surely has a spot on the list, not because Weiss feels she's done anything specifically to be guilty _about,_ but rather, if given enough time, Weiss can and will feel guilty about most everything. It's part of being a Schnee.

"She's my sister," says Weiss, lame and miserable even to her own ears— _especially_ to her own ears, actually. She looks up at Yang, shrugs helplessly. "If I don't answer, then…"

"Oh my _gods,"_ Yang groans. "Weiss—fuck Winter, okay? There is not a single person, living or dead, who gives a shit what she thinks."

Weiss sniffs. "Winter does."

Yang rolls her eyes—big and exaggerated and, Weiss knows, executed exclusively for the purpose of making her laugh. Which she does. A little.

"Fine. _Winter_ is the only person, living or dead, who gives a shit what Winter thinks." She lifts an eyebrow. "So guess what? Not your fuckin' problem."

Weiss tries for another laugh, but it gets caught in her throat somewhere, and turns into something tantamount to a sob, if Weiss were the kind of person who—actually, fuck it. Weiss _is_ the kind of person who lets herself cry sometimes. Who gives a shit? Who's going to stop her?

So she cries, and it's awful, because Weiss hates crying more than most things—and Weiss hates a lot of things and she hates them with real commitment, mind—but fighting with Winter just hits her somewhere deep inside herself, where the armor of _Maid of Winter,_ or _Liaison to the Council of Mistral,_ or _Certified Huntress of Team RWBY,_ or even just simply _Weiss Schnee_ can't quite reach, can't quite protect her. A place that's hollow and empty and cold to the touch, even for her.

Yang sighs, pulls her in, tucks Weiss' head under her chin, mumbles, "Please don't cry," even as she runs a soothing hand along her back, fingers skating down the ridges of her spine.

"I know what it's like to want people to come around, Weiss," Yang tells her, resting her cheek on Weiss' head, speaking so, so softly, "I wanted Raven to be a different person so badly—I think part of the reason I cared so much is because I'd, like, _invented_ another Raven in my head. And _that's_ the Raven I was always fucking pulling for, but she wasn't _real."_

Yang leans away, and Weiss lifts her head. Their faces are, she reflects, in a detached part of her mind, _very_ close.

"Big sisters aren't supposed to be assholes, Weiss," Yang tells her, serious.

Weiss croaks out, "I know," and that, at least, seems to satisfy Yang for a moment, but before she can reel Weiss back in, her scroll goes off where it lies facedown across the floor.

"Fuck," Weiss curses, slipping out of Yang's arms to cross the room and retrieve it—if the screen's cracked she's billing the fucking Army, absolutely _watch_ her—but Yang's already there, scooping it off the ground to briefly inspect the caller ID.

Weiss can see Winter's reversed portrait through the device's transparent screen.

 _"_ _Yang!"_ Weiss grapples clumsily for the scroll, but Yang stiff-arms her with embarrassing ease as she flicks the accept button and put the scroll to her ear.

"Winter?" she asks, tone painfully neutral, the way she talks when she's figuring out the socially acceptable way to call one of Weiss' coworkers a _fucking dumbass_ at a fancy party. "Hey, yeah, it's Yang. No, Weiss isn't around, so sorry."

There's a pause as Winter presumably talks back. Weiss can't even hear herself think—her entire existence has narrowed to pinpoint precision on the fact that _Yang is talking to Winter._

Yang says, "Well, here's the thing, actually—it _is_ my fucking business, because even if Weiss _wasn't_ my friend and team member and literal _roommate,_ I'd still be pretty _fuckin'_ pissed on her behalf just because this isn't how older sisters treat their siblings." Her tone is matter-of-fact—blunt and obvious and unchallengeable as Yang's own right hook.

More talking. Weiss can only stare blankly at the island.

Yang laughs, once—a sharp bark of amusement that sends a bolt of, well, _something,_ ricocheting down Weiss' spine.

"You think I'm only saying this because, what, we're _dating?"_ she drawls, lazy and tart. Weiss chokes on her next swallow. "Is that the only reason I can have to hate the people who make her feel shitty, Winter? I have to be _fucking_ her in order to want her to be happy? _That's_ what you're telling me right now?"

Weiss is— _factually_ —not getting enough oxygen.

Yang works her jaw as Winter screeches back on the other line—Weiss can just barely make out the faint, tinny sound of her shouting.

"Respectfully, you're a godsdamn mess, General Schnee," Yang eventually says, soundly cutting Winter off, "and keep your nose the _fuck_ out of Weiss' business, or we're _actually_ gonna have problems."

She pauses, presumably to let her threat hang in the air even as Winter shouts some more, before ending the call and causally tossing the scroll on the island. She turns to look at Weiss with a cocked eyebrow.

"Well," says Yang, brisk, "there's that shit taken care of. Do you think she'll actually try and keep bothering you because, like, I'd kind of love to punch her halfway to Vacuo, to be honest."

Weiss chokes. Yang lifts an eyebrow.

"Too much?" she asks, dropping into one of the stools at the counter. Weiss perches on the edge of her own—it's still wet from the snow; gods, what a fucking mess.

"No," Weiss says, quietly, "just enough, I think, actually."

Yang hums, pleased, and Weiss' mind drifts, wondering if maybe she owes Raven a call on Yang's behalf, but of course that's stupid because Yang doesn't need anyone's help, and Raven certainly isn't intimidated by the likes of Weiss fucking Schnee, Maiden or not, and—

Weiss sits up straight, suddenly, a horrible thought occurring to her. Yang looks over, brow knitted with confusion—

"Raven," Weiss blurts, panic surging through the haze her adrenaline had left behind.

Yang wrinkles her nose. "What?"

 _"_ _Raven,"_ Weiss repeats, like Yang can't be trusted to remember her mother's own fucking name. "Is she—when's the last time you heard from her?"

Yang frowns harder. "I _don't_ hear from her, Weiss," she says, slow, "that's kind of the point." An enormously fair point, at that, but Weiss just shakes her head, jostling her heart where it's lodged in her throat.

"When Raven dies you'll become the Summer Maiden," Weiss doesn't exactly _vomit_ the words out, but it's close, "and then we can't be in the same Kingdom."

Yang blinks. Once. "What?"

Weiss _whines,_ anxiety wringing out her nerves like a towel. The fingers on Yang's good hand spasm where she rests them island, but Weiss hardly notices. "Gods, Yang, the fucking _law._ The one Goodwitch made—remember? Every kingdom can only house one Maiden and like," Weiss gestures frantically, uselessly. Yang keeps frowning. "I'm sort of already occupying Mistral."

It's a shitty thing to say, for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that Yang was definitely living in Mistral _first,_ and had in fact been the one to invite Weiss out here at all. And Weiss _could_ leave, certainly—the powers-that-be in Atlas have been anything but subtle in their desire for the Winter Maiden to return home—but she just doesn't _want_ to.

Atlas hasn't been her home in so long. Probably as long as it's been since Yang broke her out of a literal cage.

"I can teach anywhere, Weiss," Yang says. She's titling her head in that way she does when she's about to read Weiss' mind and somehow, someway—Weiss finds the notion deeply fucking soothing. "I like Haven a lot, but I'm pretty sure any school would take me."

"Well, of course," Weiss says quickly—she doesn't doubt that Yang's an excellent teacher; she's heard plenty of students and parents and fellow faculty members sing her praises, "but, but, _still—"_

"Weiss," says Yang, slowly, deliberately. She's taken Weiss' thoughts directly out of her mind, has read between her anxious, worried lines to see the subtext. Weiss doesn't know how she does it—frankly, she doesn't even know _why_ she does it. "Raven isn't going to die anytime soon. She's too fucking stubborn." She slouches back in her seat, waving a hand. "And also she's like, really good at fighting _I guess._ But mostly the stubborn thing." She shrugs one shoulder. "She's like Winter, dude. They're gonna live forever just to fuckin' spite us."

Weiss scoffs at that, but concedes the point. They sit in silence for a few moments. Weiss can't stop feeling the phantom warmth of Yang's hand on her hip and briefly considers shoving her face directly into the snowdrift they'd relocated to their fucking _sink._

"Do you ever think about becoming a Maiden?" Weiss blurts out instead. They're drifting into _things we don't talk about_ territory, but Weiss thinks, very eloquently—fuck it. If Yang doesn't want to answer she certainly doesn't have to.

But Yang only shrugs, turning to glance out the window. The sunlight splits her profile—Yang Xiao Long, the Huntress with a Burning Heart, the _Sun Dragon—_ and Weiss swallows around what she assumes is leftover anxiety.

"No," says Yang, simply, "there's no guarantee she'll give it to me, anyway. And if she does, well..." Yang trails off, looking back to Weiss. The corner of her mouth twitches. "I know someone who could show me the ropes."

Weiss lifts an eyebrow. "You saw me fill our kitchen with three inches of snow today, Yang," she replies, "just because I got _upset."_

Yang smirks—the dangerous one, all teeth and heat—and says, "I've leveled _buildings_ fighting with Raven, and I'm not even a _Maiden."_

There's a beat. A rather pointed one, actually.

"Are you _genuinely,"_ Weiss fixes her with a flat look of disbelief, "trying to rile me into a fight by implying that your _Semblance_ is stronger than my Maiden powers? Is that what's going on here, Yang Xiao Long?"

"Depends," says Yang, quirking an eyebrow, "are you riled?"

 _Yes,_ Weiss thinks immediately, but has the good fucking sense not to actually _say._

She just huffs imperiously, turning around sharply in a manner she knows will make her ponytail swing dramatically—listen if she practiced that move to perfection in her bedroom as a child it's nobody's business but hers—and slides off the stool, striding down the hall to collect Myrtenaster.

"Loser's buying dinner," Yang calls after her, and Weiss says, _"Fine,"_ even though she already knows it's going to be her—she just can't keep her fucking focus.

She retrieves Myrtenaster delicately from where it sits on the rack beside her bed, and waits for the moment when she'll hear Cinder's voice back in her mind—the memories are always worse after an episode like that, it usually takes _days_ before they skulk back to whatever dark reaches of her mind they came from—but even as her fingers close around the hilt, nothing comes.

Weiss studies her reflection in the guard of her blade, watching as she shudders with the recollection of Yang's eyes raking across her leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey here we are again friends. sorry for the delay, this chapter gave me some trouble (phone conversations are hard!)
> 
> happy pride!!! I'm gonna try and cook up a few more freezerburn things soon, so stick around if that's your jam. which, like, I'm guessing it is since you're three chapters deep in a freezerburn fic but y'know.
> 
> next chapter is mostly written and it has Blake (finally!!!!!!) so stay tuned and all that good stuff.
> 
> as always, drop me a line on [twitter](https://twitter.com/reduxwriter) if you want to talk. have a good day/afternoon/evening wherever you are <3 (twitter has been eating my DMs lately and I don't know why so it may take me a second to cycle through and actually find it but I never leave a message unanswered so please don't despair I promise I will find it eventually!)
> 
> ~~I think at this point I'm like contractually obligated to write Weiss' fight with Cinder Fall so like keep an eye out for that hot bit of reality I guess~~
> 
> also, to copy-and-paste from a different fic I just posted, just to make everything crystal clear: idk at what point in time you may be reading this but if it's anytime around the summer of 2020, support the protests in each and every way you can. and even if it isn't the summer of 2020: blm, acab, fuck TERFs. thanks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you still keep track?” Blake asks, quirking a split eyebrow, “back at Beacon, you kept a record of your spars with her.”
> 
> Weiss colors _magnificently_ at that. “Who told you—? How did you—? _Blake!”_
> 
> Blake shrugs, eyes widening just enough to try and convey a look of innocence that the scar across her nose and the torn Faunus ear atop her head can’t quite allow her to pull off.
> 
> “You read my _diary?”_ Weiss is—frankly—scandalized. When will the injustice against seventeen year-old her end, honestly?
> 
> “I wanted to see if you had a crush on Yang,” says Blake, easy as anything and Weiss—Weiss feels the whole conversation _shift_ about three inches to the left.

_Bars_ are—to no one’s real shock, surely—not really Weiss’ _scene._

She is, by nature of her occupation and social status and generally higher-than-average standards of cleanliness, a frequent guest at _fancy_ bars, which are called _lounges,_ and which Weiss has always felt is a somewhat stupid and vaguely threatening sort of name—who is _lounging_ at those places, exactly? It’s always so dark and cramped and there are never enough exits—but small, simple, hole-in-the-wall bars are not often graced by the presence of one Weiss Schnee.

Sure, she’ll allow herself to be dragged to some sweltering Vacuo tavern by Ruby and Sun when she visits them, has on more than one occasion been subjected to Coco’s rowdy pub crawls, and of course there’s that very memorable instance when she’d punched Qrow Branwen clean unconscious in Vale’s own Crow Bar for running his godsdamn _mouth_ but like—she doesn’t actually _like_ bars. She doesn’t like drinking at all, really, particularly when she’s in a roomful of strangers without Yang’s comforting warmth at her back or Myrtenaster’s weight at her hip.

But she’s here anyway—some dive bar in Southern Mistral where it’s just humid enough to be uncomfortable—because Blake’s here, and the opportunity to be in the same place at the same time as the Fall Maiden is so rare and novel, that yes, Weiss will very happily perch on her battered barstool and sip her very-much-too-strong Old Fashioned without a word of complaint while they wait for Yang to wrap up some late meetings.

Blake lifts an eyebrow, says, “You can complain.”

Weiss lowers her glass with a frown. “I didn’t _say_ anything!”

“You didn’t,” Blake’s tone rarely shifts—it’s always low and soft and _just_ cool enough to make Weiss sit up a little straighter—but her eyes are warm, lips tucked in to hide a small smile, “but I know you.”

And what a thing it is, to be known by Blake Belldonna. What a thing more it is to be _liked_ by her, to have her respect and trust and— _gods_ but Weiss is a sentimental drunk.

She throws back more of the Old Fashioned, willing herself not to make a face. She’s endured worse. Probably. Somewhere. It burns on the way down her throat and takes every ounce of Weiss’ self-control to not grimace.

Blake just laughs—quiet, and low in her throat. She pushes a glass of water closer.

“No need to suffer on my account,” she says, gently amused, “though it’s nice to see you still can’t hold your liquor, despite Yang’s influence.”

Weiss coughs—so far this month she’s used her powers to bake a pie, chase off a migraine, re-chill Yang’s iced coffee after she’d forgotten it on the desk, and now to soothe the burn of shitty alcohol down her throat in a dingy, back alley bar. Truly, the hero of Remnant. She spares an idle thought of thanks that Goodwitch doesn’t, like, ask for a fucking itemized list of every time a Maiden uses her powers, though she’s certain Ruby is far less responsible in that regard.

“Yang hardly drinks anymore,” Weiss manages, rubbing a hand up the column of her throat, “I mean, she drinks vodka _straight_ sometimes so she can’t be fucking trusted, but beyond that I suppose she’s harmless.”

Blake’s dark fingers play at the neck of her beer bottle—untouched, by the way, which is bullshit because this was supposed to be a group activity—as she hums noncommittally. Weiss hasn’t been caught in Blake’s sights for a while now, and had almost forgotten how it feels to be so carefully observed. Sure, she’s watched by Councilmembers, she turns more than a few heads when she’s out in public, she’ll always have a target in the shape of a snowflake on her back, but—there’s something _more_ about the way Blake has seemed to _study_ her lately that sets her gracefully on edge.

Then Blake’s saying, “Harmless enough to lay you out in a spar?” all feather-light teasing, and Weiss is rolling her eyes so hard she forgets what she was even thinking about.

“Gods, of _course_ she told you about that,” Weiss gripes, reaching again for the Old Fashioned because she really never learns her lesson. “I’ve beaten her _plenty_ of times—”

But Blake’s just laughing quietly at her—the kind of dark, delicate noise that is designed by biology to dance across the back of someone’s neck. But it isn’t cruel, or mocking, and Weiss has grown so used to Blake’s cryptic mysteriousness that she actually finds herself loosening at the sound.

Weiss takes another sip. _Such_ a fucking sentimental drunk. She wonders if she, like, subconsciously stores it all up just waiting for the moment when her blood alcohol content ticks up by a _hair._ Though, to be fair, with Weiss’ tolerance, a little bit goes a _long_ fucking way.

“Do you still keep track?” Blake asks, quirking a split eyebrow, “back at Beacon, you kept a record of your spars with her.”

Weiss colors _magnificently_ at that. “Who told you—? How did you—? _Blake!”_

Blake shrugs, eyes widening just enough to try and convey a look of innocence that the scar across her nose and the torn Faunus ear atop her head can’t quite allow her to pull off.

“You read my _diary?”_ Weiss is—frankly—scandalized. When will the injustice against seventeen year-old her end, honestly?

“I wanted to see if you had a crush on Yang,” says Blake, easy as anything and Weiss—Weiss feels the whole conversation _shift_ about three inches to the left.

Weiss says, “Um,” because she’s a silver-tongued politician who can lie and scheme and charm her way out of a paper bag and a whole host of hardline, leading questions from whatever member of the Mistral Council Press Corp has a scroll stuck in her face, but not when she’s, like, _drunk._ “I, uh, I didn’t.” She definitely didn’t, right? Weiss’ memories of her time at Beacon are so marred by her own anger and unhappiness that it’s hard to remember much else—plus it had been cut short by the whole _total destruction of campus_ thing so there’s not a lot to remember in the first place. The food fight sticks out, mainly because she’d dueled the greatest living Huntress-in-training with a fucking _swordfish,_ but, like, _of course_ she’d remember that.

She liked Yang well enough, sure. But…a crush? She remembers having a crush on Neptune, mostly because it’s completely embarrassing and he’s constantly reminding her of it with more glee and relish than anyone one person should ever express, particularly when said person had an equally stupid crush on her back _and_ managed to land Sage Ayana and therefore never needs to look at another human again.

“I know,” says Blake, predictably unhelpful. She nudges the water a little closer to Weiss, who obediently takes a long swig. Most of it spills down her shirt. She’s super drunk. _Fuck._

The conversation skirts around after that, and if Weiss were sober and in full control of her mental faculties, she’d _strongly_ suspect Blake is purposefully trying to lead her through a series of complex, revolving topics as a way to throw her off, but Weiss is drunk, and useless, and Blake’s eyes are, like, _really pretty,_ so she allows herself to be strung along, chatting about Ruby and Sun’s home renovation horror stories, then the changes Sage is implementing at Haven as Headmaster, to Coco and Velvet’s shotgun wedding which everyone had very politely pretended to be floored by in order to appease Coco even though literally nobody was surprised, and all the way down to Winter, a conversational topic Weiss is aware Blake only broached so as to give Weiss the floor to just, like, relentlessly bitch about her sister.

Which Weiss does. With gusto.

“It’s like,” says Weiss, another few sips of Old Fashioned later, “it’s not _my_ fault that she can’t be Head of Household. She knew she was—” here Weiss hiccups so violently that Blake’s ears briefly go flat against her skull “—closing that door when she joined the Army!”

“Why can’t she be both?” asks Blake, because she’s a good friend who pretends to be interested in the batshit nonsense that is Schnee Family politics. She takes a pull from her still mostly-full beer bottle and Weiss develops an acute interest in the direction of the grain on their wooden tabletop so she doesn’t stare at the dark column of Blake’s throat as she swallows like a _serial killer._

“Because it’s, like, a conflict of interest or something,” says Weiss, even though she can—state of sobriety notwithstanding—rattle off the exact wording of the exact section of the Atlas Constitution that spells out exactly why Winter, or any heir to any Great Family, can’t both be in the Army and a Head of Household, but she knows Blake is just being polite and could not possibly give less of a shit, and also the Constitution is, like, really fucking misogynistic and Weiss gets mad whenever she talks about it, so.

Blake says, “Your mom’s the Head right now, right?” soft enough that Weiss could very easily pretend she didn’t hear the question at all, but Blake’s a friend and Weiss is—as stated—a very sentimental drunk, so she just sighs.

“Yeah,” she says, quiet. Her eyes land on the table again. “She is.”

Blake tilts her head, tries to catch her eyes. “She doing okay?”

Weiss had visited her mother last in the spring—a short trip, but a nice one. Quiet. Uneventful. Mother had seemed fine then, had even asked Weiss about Mistral, and the Council, and Weiss’ pet infrastructural bill, which, for some reason, always sounds like a colossal waste of time anywhere outside of the Silver Court.

 _“You’ll get the bill passed, darling,”_ Mother had told her, gently running a hand through Weiss’ hair. She isn’t bedridden all the time, and when they both sat out in the gardens it almost felt—normal. Or the closest to normal things could ever get, for them. _“I know you will.”_

Weiss had said, _“Schnees aren’t quitters,”_ because she’s twenty-four and can count on one hand the amount of times her mother has ever offered her words of encouragement so she isn’t, exactly, the resident expert on how to field something like that.

Mother’s smile had wavered—just enough for Weiss to know she’d answered poorly and absolutely hate herself—before she’d placed a hand on her cheek.

 _“Oh, Weiss,”_ she’d murmured, and _gods_ had Weiss’ heart broken at that, _“you’re so much more than a Schnee, my love.”_

“Yeah,” Weiss drains the water glass to help wash down the lump in her throat. “Yeah, she’s, ah. She’s okay.”

Blake’s eyes soften in a way Weiss hasn’t seen in a long time, and she looks away to slurp noisily at her Old Fashioned, and they both privately agree to drop the subject.

“I’m not going to be in town for long,” Blake says, after Weiss has scraped together the tattered, intoxicated remains of her dignity. She looks up to see Blake watching her again, tapping one dark finger against the tabletop. “There’s trouble outside of the Kingdoms, and I need to be back there before tomorrow morning.”

“Oh,” Weiss blinks. She hadn’t expected Blake to, like, get a house with a white picket fence and _stay_ or anything, but she usually sticks around longer than, what? Three hours? Gods. “Oh, yeah I mean—that’s sort of what you do, I guess.”

“I was planning on asking Yang to come,” says Blake, low—always so low, like she’s careful not to be overheard—and Weiss, well. Weiss just stares, actually.

There’s a moment of silence. Even generously halfway to drunk—honestly really mostly past drunk at this point—Weiss Schnee can still sense when a conversation’s taken an awkward turn, but she can’t seem to remember how to fix it. Blake just gazes back at her steadily.

Eventually Weiss says, “Oh,” and nothing else. They stare at each other for a minute. Weiss is suddenly too warm—she’s overheating, actually, _boiling—_

Blake lifts an eyebrow. “Is that alright?” she asks. There’s no inflection in her voice, and Weiss knows—distantly—that even Sober Weiss has difficulty reading Blake Belladonna, but Drunk Weiss appears to be giving it a valiant effort, because she feels herself leaning forward and _squinting—_

“Why are you asking _me?”_ she eventually asks, ever the graceful drunk detective, _“I’m_ not Yang.”

Something very funny flits across Blake’s face, but Weiss is too busy righting herself on her bar stool without falling over and it’s frankly a herculean effort that is taking ten thousand percent of her extremely limited concentration.

“Weiss,” Blake says, slow, soft, “I’m asking you because I’m trying to cut out the middle man.”

Weiss blinks. “What?”

A smirk pulls at Blake’s lips, but it’s gone just as quick.

“If I ask Yang to go with me,” she explains—and somewhere, distantly, Weiss is fully aware that Blake is speaking to her like she’s a child, but mostly she just keeps thinking how nice Blake’s eyes look in the low lighting—“the first thing she’s going to do is ask you what _you_ think.” She gestures gently with her free hand. “Therefore, it makes far more sense to ask you first.”

Weiss nods, once. Gods her head feels heavy.

“Yes,” she agrees, “yes, this is a good plan.”

Blake’s eyebrow hitches a little higher. “I’m certainly glad you think so,” she murmurs, and Weiss thinks she might be laughing into her beer bottle, just a little.

Weiss wants to ask where they’re going, what they’re doing, who they’re seeing—a thousand question come to mind, but she just stuffs her face in her Old Fashioned instead. Blake hadn’t offered, and Weiss knows she still cagey about people knowing her movements. She’ll be with Yang—they couldn’t possibly be safer.

“Come on,” Blake’s sliding off her stool then, “Yang should be getting out of her last meeting, we’ll meet her outside, head somewhere else.” She eyes Weiss warily as she makes her significantly less graceful dismount, but doesn’t outright fall, which she’s choosing to count as a victory.

Then she takes her first step and sees the floor rush up to meet her until she’s yanked back up by a pair of dark hands.

 _“Or_ maybe we’ll take you home and tuck you in,” Blake murmurs, low in her ear, always unintentionally triggering Weiss’ fight or flight, though luckily she’s too drunk to do either. “Gods, I forget what a lightweight you are.”

Weiss scoffs. Poorly. “I’m _fine,_ Blake,” she says, very dismissive for someone who can’t walk under their own power.

Blake pays the tab despite Weiss’ very drunken and unhelpful commentary about the mysterious contents of her wallet, which she only sees for a split second but continues to ramble about as Blake carts her out of the bar and back into the hot, humid evening.

“You didn’t answer, by the way,” Blake says, soft, when Weiss has finally given up prying. They’re a good few feet from the bar now, in some dark dingy alley that Weiss distinctly remembers being horrified by when she’d walked through it earlier while sober but now hardly notices. She wobbles a little across the uneven concrete and Blake catches her arm before she can fall. “About Yang coming with me.”

Weiss says, “Oh,” because she’d honestly like, wholly forgotten. “Of course I don’t mind, Blake.” She pauses, less because she’s carefully thinking over her next words and more because she needs all of her remaining brain cells to fire in unison if she’s going to make it to the edge of the sidewalk without wiping the fuck out. “It’s just, like, a trip, right? Like, a few weeks or something?”

She’s so preoccupied with the very monumental task of _walking_ that she misses whatever strange gymnastics Blake’s face goes through in response to that, but she can mostly hear it in her voice when she says, “What if it wasn’t?”

Weiss is suddenly very aware of the sound of blood rushing through her head.

“Um,” says Weiss, _“what?”_

“Weiss,” Blake says, fingers still curled around her arm. Weiss lifts her head to peer up at her, finds Blake already looking down, expression shadowed by the high slant of the moonlight and her own furrowed brow. It’s the closest to _serious_ Weiss has seen her all night, and she hopes very dearly she isn’t about to ask her anything about work because _fuck_ if Weiss can remember any of the numbers from the infrastructure bill right now—

Blake says, “How do you feel about Yang?” with just a _whisper_ of that steel Weiss knows lies beneath, and Weiss blinks several times.

 _“Yang?”_ she repeats, thrown. She wants to sober up—she _knows_ this is important—but it is a well-known and highly-circulated fact that she is the lightest lightweight of all of them, so if Blake wanted to ask her something urgent she could have done so _before_ she watched Weiss drink five fingers of hard liquor in one fucking sitting.

Blake’s lip curls just enough to reveal the tip of her upper canine and Weiss tries to pull away on instinct, but Blake holds fast, tugs her a little closer and Weiss _hisses—_

“Let me _go,_ Blake!” Weiss snarls, powers lancing up her arm—unbidden, thoughtless, a knee-jerk reaction—but Blake’s reflexes trounce hers even on her best days, and she’s yanked her hand back before Weiss can freeze her fucking fingers off.

They stare at each other in the gloom of the alley. Weiss feels more light-headed and off-balance than she has all night—maybe ever.

“You keep bringing her up,” Weiss says, and she honestly, for the life of her, cannot gauge how loudly she’s speaking. It must not be too inappropriate, because Blake hasn’t slapped a hand over her mouth yet, so she plunges on, drunk and reckless and dizzy, “How do _you_ feel about Yang, Blake?”

Blake _stares—_ gaze heavy and golden and burning with the powers of the Fall Maiden. She’s _furious_ and Weiss can’t figure out _why—_

“Yang is my best friend, Weiss,” Blake says shortly—practically _spits_ the words—and _gods_ they haven’t fought like this since they were _teenagers_ so what the fuck is _happening—?_ “I care about her.”

“She’s my _roommate!”_ Weiss blurts, like a fucking _idiot,_ and she can see her breath cloud before her as her power swirls up her lungs, frosting her rib cage and icing her throat. “You think I _don’t_ care about her?”

Blake says, _“I_ think you don’t know what the fuck you’re _doing,”_ with so much real genuine _venom_ that Weiss actually feels herself stumble back, one hand coming up to brace against the brick wall of the alley, eyes wide.

It is, of course, at that exact moment that Yang comes around the corner, looking so pleased and warm and radiant that Weiss gets fully distracted and her hand almost slips off the fucking wall.

“Well, looky what the cat dragged in,” Yang drawls, grinning widely as she pulls Blake into a hug. Blake makes a show of trying to pull away—she’s the Fall Maiden and the deadliest thing on two feet for miles and miles—and hisses theatrically when Yang ruffles her hair.

Weiss just. Watches.

Yang glances her way, smiles and says, “Hey Weiss,” and the only response Weiss can manage is a blank stare back.

Weiss is pretty sure Yang’s eyes linger on her neck—uncharacteristically exposed as Weiss had hauled all her hair up in the world’s trashiest updo just to get it off her neck—but Weiss is also drunk as fuck so she could, like, be completely misreading that one.

“I see you started without me,” says Yang, but her voice is warm with amusement. She pokes Blake in the side, and Blake in turn bears it gracefully if not completely fucking grimly. Yang just laughs.

Weiss wants to throw up. For like, seven different reasons, at least.

Blake and Yang exchange a few words—they aren’t, like, _whispering,_ per se, but Weiss’ mind is drifting further and further away, so she also has absolutely zero idea what’s said, but the result is a bemused _“Really?”_ from Yang as she turns to look back at Weiss, and Weiss decides she’s pretty much done with this banger of a night out, thanks.

She makes to turn away and stride off—see? _See?_ This is _exactly_ why she doesn’t go to fucking dive bars—and almost immediately misjudges the distance between the street and the sidewalk and nearly breaks her fucking ankle taking her first bold, drunken step.

 _“Whoa,”_ Yang has her by the arm then, calloused fingers familiar and warm, and Weiss stills despite the fact that she’d bucked Blake’s very same hold not a moment prior, “you’re _way_ too drunk to make it home, champ. Let me and Blake—”

Something…something _spasms_ inside Weiss—it’s hot and ugly and hits her square in the chest, knocking the wind straight from her lungs—and this time she _does_ pull away, snatching her arm back so roughly she nearly upsets her own balance, and wobbles precarious as Yang frowns, reaching out to cup her elbows and keep her from falling.

“Hey, easy there,” says Yang, all that earlier playfulness out like a light. Weiss steadies under her grip, and Yang seems to curl her fingers tighter without realizing it—Weiss feels herself flush but can’t figure out why. “Weiss, what’s going on?”

What _is_ going on? Weiss is drunk and her head hurts and she’s pretty sure Blake is pissed at her but she can’t remember why. Maybe she never knew? Weiss is also pissed at Blake, she thinks, but that’s equally fuzzy, and may be contingent on her assumption that Blake is pissed at _her,_ which—

“…hasn’t eaten all day,” Yang is saying, which is odd, because Weiss can’t remember the start of her sentence, or when they moved away from the back alley and down towards the docks. The air is cooler here, blowing in off the sea, and Yang is still clutching Weiss by the elbows.

“She’s never held her liquor,” comes Blake’s even response, though Weiss’ vision is too hazy to actually _see_ her say the words. She swivels her head and spots a dark smear against the glittering backdrop of ocean and moonlight and assumes she’s found her. “I didn’t think anything of it, Yang, I’m sorry.”

Yang just huffs in that idly frustrated way over hers, and Weiss shivers when her fingers—warmer than usual in the sea breeze—alight gently on her jaw, tilting Weiss’ face up to hers.

Weiss blinks a few times to clear her vision. Yang peers down at her, clearly troubled.

“Hey there, Snow Angel,” she quips, but it’s weak even to Weiss’ ears. “I think you overdid it.”

Weiss swallows with difficulty. She still wants to throw up but maybe for like, three reasons instead of seven now.

“Yeah,” she says, a beat too late. “I think so.”

Yang’s eyes are so _bright—_ swirling shades of lilac and lavender and violet; endless in a way Weiss isn’t sure she’s ever noticed before. Is she still being sentimental? She has no fucking idea, so she just decides to keep staring.

“That’s…not really like you, Weiss,” says Yang, carefully, pulling back a little like she just realized Weiss is absolutely _boring_ her eyes into Yang’s. “Is something wrong?”

Weiss very determinedly does not look at Blake when she says, “No.”

Yang quirks an eyebrow. “Okay, well, _that’s_ some bullshit, but fine. Whatever. We still need to get you home.”

 _We._ It grates at Weiss in a way that she knows—somewhere, objectively, probably—is fucking stupid.

She doesn’t _want_ to be around Blake and Yang. She very fervently wants the exact opposite of that, actually, particularly if _the exact opposite of that_ ends with her unconscious in her bed wearing the oversized T-shirt she won at Haven’s annual Summer Fair where she’d successfully dunked Yang, who had been talking _unbelievable_ amounts of shit while perched on the seat of the dunk tank and Weiss had only had to use her powers, like, a _little_ in order to pull it off, okay?

She’s about to very stupidly open her mouth with no _godly_ idea of what she’s going to say when there’s a sudden _whoop_ of excitement and their tiny corner of waterfront property becomes significantly more crowded.

It’s the boys. _The_ boys—Team SSSN. Weiss can’t remember the last time she’d seen them all in one place—the Fall Maiden ceremony? But no, Scarlet hadn’t been there for that. Earlier, then. Ren and Nora’s wedding? It makes sense, she supposes, hazily, because Neptune and Sage live in Atlas, and she knew Sun had come to visit, and she figures it couldn’t have been much harder to wrangle Scarlet into their plans, but still.

“Well, look who it is!” Sun calls, bounding over the second he catches sight of them. He throws an arm around Blake, playfully hip checking her, “Gods, I haven’t seen you in _years,_ Bells.”

Blake says, “I hate it when you call me that,” and shoves off his arm, but she’s fighting a small smile and Sun isn’t _dead_ yet, which are both very good signs that she’s not, like, actually mad. Wisely deciding not to press his luck, Sun bounces from Blake to Yang, who takes her hands off Weiss so as to not get fully bowled over by his enthusiasm as he all but leaps into her arms.

“Sun,” Yang chides, cradling him awkwardly as Sun calls over his shoulder, “I _told_ you she’d catch me, Scarlet!”

Weiss’ head is starting to throb.

 _“Princess,”_ Neptune greets, bowing low and dramatic and precisely as shit-eating as always before Weiss as Yang, Sun, and Scarlet dissolve into their usual squabble in the background. Just beyond them, Weiss can barely make out Blake and Sage exchanging quiet pleasantries.

He looks up to tip her a wink, and something in her expression must convey some sentiment of _holy fucking shit I’m having the worst night of my life_ because his brow furrows and he draws himself back up to full height almost immediately, moving closer to put a hand on her arm. “Whoa, hey, what happened?”

 _“Neptune,”_ Weiss whispers, stupidly, eyes wide and oh gods she can feel the tears coming now and _why the fuck does she want to **cry** what is **wrong** with her?_

“Bugger _off,_ Neptune, you’re always hogging her,” Scarlet says, cleanly throwing one skinny elbow so as to make room for himself. He must catch the same look on her face as Neptune, and, really, the most inconvenient part of being drunk and/or sad as far as Weiss can tell is it totally ruins her ability to put on her Everything’s Fine And Nothing’s On Fire face. She _loves_ that face. She wears it, like, literally all the time at work.

“Alright there, love?” Scarlet asks, concerned. “You look a bit poorly.”

Neptune’s voice is in her ear, low and worried when he says, “Hey, Weiss, what’s—?”

 _“Please get me out of here,”_ Weiss breathes, so faintly she wonders if Neptune even hears her, but he must because the next thing she knows some shuffling occurs and some kind of silent signal must be given because she’s gingerly placed behind the human brick wall that is Sage Ayana, who places a comforting hand on her waist that both keeps Weiss from tipping over and also makes her inexplicably want to burst into tears as Sun and Neptune turn to face Blake and Yang all in the span of, like, two _seconds._

Team SSSN, Weiss decides, privately, has _absolutely_ had to help a few desperate, drunk girls out of tight spots in their day. She’s kind of humiliated but mostly relieved. Being drunk is weird.

“Very funny,” Yang drawls, when she realizes what’s happened, “kidnapping the Princess, _ha ha,_ totally hilarious.” Her tone goes flat. “Come on, we’re taking her home.”

“You get to see the Ice Queen anytime you _want,”_ Sun complains, all boyish bravado as he tucks his arms comfortably behind his head. “She’s practically my sister-in-law! Come on, let us steal her for the night.”

Yang’s _not_ having it. “Literally fuck _off,_ Sun. I’m your _actual_ sister-in-law and I’ll throw you into the fucking ocean.”

“You can try,” says Sage, with just enough weight for it to maybe not be a joke, and Weiss swears she can _feel_ Yang’s eyes flicker—red to violet, violet to red—even without seeing her.

“Yang,” that’s Blake, and Weiss feels herself go tense under Sage’s arm. “It’s fine, I think Weiss just had a rough night.”

Weiss’ temperature drops like a fucking _brick_ as her temper skyrockets—a sharp enough change that Sage pulls his hand away as her skin goes subzero. Anger is the path of least resistance when it comes to accessing Maiden powers. It’s why Raven’s damn near indestructible.

“What is going _on?”_ Yang snaps. “I’m taking Weiss home, the rest of you can go fuck yourselves.”

Weiss peers under Sage’s arm just in time to see Blake seize Yang by the wrist and pull her close, hissing something so low even Sober Weiss couldn't hear it, and Weiss has seen Blake and Yang talk privately a thousand times before—they're literal fucking _Hunting_ partners, of _course_ they communicate—but it's never set her skin on fucking _fire_ before—

Appeased, apparently—well, not appeased, actually, because her face is absolutely mutinous, but maybe at least _stayed—_ by whatever Blake whispered in her ear, Yang takes a few careful steps forward to post herself directly in front of Sage and grab a loose fistful of his collar. Weiss forgets how tall she is in their day-to-day lives, but now she sees Yang can nearly look Sage straight in the eye and her stomach flips.

“Nothing funny,” she says, and her voice _burns._ Weiss shivers, but she can’t feel the cold. “Get her home, okay?”

“Like Sun said,” Sage answers calmly, despite the fact that he's essentially facing down two-and-a-half Maidens in a shitty back alley and, truthfully, has no fucking idea what's going on. Weiss hopes he figures it out so he can clue her in. “She’s practically family. She’s in good hands, Yang.”

Yang drops her gaze then, looking directly down at Weiss, and Weiss tries to shrink as small as she can beneath Sage’s arm.

Weiss thinks she should probably say something—she tries to see the whole situation from Yang’s point of view, but she can barely see it from her _own_ point of view, so like, that’s mostly going nowhere—but her mind is just absolute white noise as Yang’s eyes slowly fade back from red, and the fight drains from her little by little. It’s always a little off-putting, to be caught in Yang’s sights—Weiss has thought that since the first time she met her—but now she’s starting to wonder if it’s really because Yang’s intense and overwhelming or if this is, like, just a problem Weiss has for completely different reasons.

Yang lets go of Sage’s collar, takes one last long look at Weiss, and turns to follow Blake into the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello here we are again
> 
> much happier with this chapter than I was the last, so that’s fun, but now we’re going to be getting into the nittier grittier parts of this fic, so head’s up that some angst does lie ahead, though I cross my heart it will all be happily resolved in the end. Weiss just has to stick her foot in her mouth a few times first. it’s also gotten significantly longer that I originally intended.
> 
> watch this space because I’m nearly finished playing around with a few short form freezerburn AUs (one involves memory loss and one involves fantasy royalty bc I’m dumb and predictable) and chat with me on the [twitter machine](https://twitter.com/reduxwriter) if you’d like.
> 
> be kind to others and to yourself. find the good thing that you can do and do it. 2020 continues to be an absolute shithole and I don’t mean to turn these author’s notes into my on political/social soapbox but I need to make it clear that if you aren’t on the level with these things, my content isn’t for you. so on that note: believe survivors. not a debate. thanks.
> 
> also I fell into shiny hunting hell so idk if or when you’ll ever hear from me again but I swear to god I WILL have a pink buneary by the end of this
> 
> ~~also also apparently Yang somewhere canonically called Weiss “Snow Angel” according to the wiki and am going to throw up a leg I cannot believe RT is still kicking my ass years after I stopped watching~~


End file.
